


Red strings

by Okydodle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe???, Frottage, M/M, Other, Puppets, Stridercest - Freeform, dirkjake is gross
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:17:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4310163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Okydodle/pseuds/Okydodle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His name was Dave, and you reminded him of it every day as you walked and danced him through your workshop, and soon your house. A puppet on red string, which clacked and wobbled with an odd elegance not even you could create.</p>
<p>Standing at three feet tall, he was your masterpiece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red strings

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Still Doll](https://archiveofourown.org/works/965091) by [Luenetta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luenetta/pseuds/Luenetta). 



> Also inspired by "The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane" by Katie DiCamillo.
> 
> If there are any mistakes please let me know.
> 
>  
> 
> I post originals on my wattpad.  
> http://www.wattpad.com/user/Okydodle

He had spruce wood for skin. Bleached, white, fair and smooth to the touch; it would scratch under the surface of your fingerprint, and, inside, the sound would hum through his hollow body. Fragile cheekbones dusted in baby pink.

He had a mouth crafted to quirk upwards only the lightest angle, yourself having worked meticulously day and night to etch each crease and crevice of his lips, smoothed and painted over in terra cotta. His eyebrows were done by brush stroke; you did not spare a single bowed and faded, brown-blonde line. They were higher than expected, giving him a faint expression of curiosity. The eyelashes were not missed, made of thin wires coated in a layer of wax, each fiber dipped individually. You had paid attention to the limit of each thin sterling silver piece. They were long, curved up, black.

The hair on his head had come from your own, a pale blonde, ten inches long, and soft.

His body was the same. Wooden, sanded down, white. Each joint clacked when you attached them with copper wire. It would sometimes shimmer through in the lamplight, as if it were his bones. Knuckle to knuckle. Finger to hand. Hand to wrist. Wrist to forearm. Forearm to bicep, bicep to shoulder and then the rest of his torso. Toes to foot, foot to ankle, ankle to shin and shin to knee. Knee to his thigh, thigh to his hips, and once more at his form.

His clothes you had hand-sewn: a white, button up, long sleeved shirt. It was nearly the colour of his skin - the contrast of light on lighter perfect to the intent eye - and tucked in to black dress pants. You had on him a silk fullback vest in red, small buttons of the same colour done up in the centre of his torso with shallow pockets on each side which, for the moment, were empty. The top two buttons that made up his collar and placket front were undone and slightly folded outwards, allowing a peek at the chest that had been lightly airbrushed pink, for a soft flush that got your mind spinning. The suit you had made him finished off with polished, pointed dress shoes in black, made with real leather and a rubber sole.

And his eyes. Glass. Two perfect orbs you had commissioned from Murano, Italy - not unwilling to pay the highest price for a duo of pure lattimo, milky white. You'd used the fine tip of a paintbrush to circle the pupil, then, one stroke at a time, had filled the iris in blood red, lacing through it threads of gold. His eyes were wide and alive while they watched you, as piece by piece, you put him together.

 

His name was Dave, and you reminded him of it every day as you walked and danced him through your workshop, and soon your house. A puppet on red string, which clacked and wobbled with an odd elegance not even you could create. Though he needed your help to stand, you were always there to offer it to him. He relied on you, and when you were gone, he would sit beside the window with his head rested on the glass and watch through summer, as sun danced off the windowpanes past autumn, viewing each leaf fade to orange and fall into winter, where it would rain at first before the world he knew outside was blanketed in snow, and spring, where he would watch the honeybees tend to the multi-coloured blanket of tulips that had newly grown from the fresh earth. 

Standing at three feet tall, he was your masterpiece.


End file.
